


de profundis

by babyers (aqvamarine)



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: -Ish, Alternate Universe, Fluff, M/M, Short One Shot, byler, kinda???, this litterally makes no sense, vague... attempt... at poetry
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-04
Updated: 2019-08-04
Packaged: 2020-07-31 09:55:29
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 705
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20113207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aqvamarine/pseuds/babyers
Summary: Will is an artist, and Mike is helplessly, utterly, desperately in love with him.





	de profundis

**Author's Note:**

> um this makes no sense im sorry  
im already fucking pissed about the 1st ep of the 3rd season anddd i needed to write stg for myself hahaha  
anyway i'll def write more about these twooo (like,,,, things with SENSE and an actual plot) i have prompts hidden somewhere but hey  
if you got anything hmu!  
also pls don't talk about the s03 i've literally just watched the 1st ep dsjnkd (and oh boy :)) i think im gonna hate so much stuff)  
(title from richter's song de profundis)(listen to richter i love richter)

Will is an artist.

He bleeds onto his canvas and rips his soul open with every little detail drawn, his skin splashed with paint dots and eyes gleaming in passion and desire like honey under the sun. Mike licks and eats every drop he’s given and always watches, transfixed, as void is turned into a masterpiece.

Will is an artist.

He’s always bursting with love and emotions too big for his tiny bones and spills it over white sheets of paper but it’s still too much and sometimes, under the moon’s comforting eyes, he cries and cries and cries until there’s no tear left to shed. Mike pretends he doesn’t hear him but hugs him a little longer the day after, presses softer kisses behind his ear and makes his tea sweeter with sugar and love.

Will is an artist, and Mike is helplessly, utterly, desperately in love with him.

He writes about it between two chapters, lost in endless descriptions of soft hair and freckled noses and a tender soul. He thinks about it each time he sees a smile and somehow the sun seems dull, as though aware of how he’ll never shine as bright and as powerful as Will. Will is a sun of his own, and Mike is so, so willing to get burnt.

Mike is an idiot.

He watches Will a little too long and blushes pretty poppies when caught and Will - Will wonders if his lips taste like his too-bitter coffee or the Skittles he smuggles everytime they go to the movies and if he’ll squeal when Will finally kisses him. Mike pours his soul onto papers he thinks no one sees, but Will does.

The first time he reads it, it’s an accident. Mike is in the bathroom and Will is too curious, fingers sticky with apple juice and a little bit of mischief - he wasn’t allowed in the room because of his nosiness and, of course, that’s what drew him in. And there he is, looking into a soul he thought he knew by heart; messy handwriting of his name, over and over and over until there’s either no ink or no room left.

Will leaves as soon as he understands, heart beating a little too fast, lips smiling a little too hard.

He doesn’t do anything for a few months. Well, he does; he draws endless versions of Mike’s face - the cut of his cheekbones, under a cluster of thunderclouds. The curve of smile, hidden inside a notebook no one ever opens. The constellation of summer freckles scattered all over his face, denser around his nose. A mole, right under his left eye - the one he kisses when they’re soft with sleep and tipsy on too much beer.

He waits, but Mike is an idiot. And, one day, he’s tired of waiting.

Mike’s sprawled on the couch, a messy jumble of too-long limbs and leisurely thrown blankets, watching some dumb show on the telly. He looks half-asleep and tender and Will’s already a little bit in love but somehow it crawls up his stomach and gets stuck in his throat like a cotton ball.

Will just crashes on him, tearing a panicked, sleepy squeal and an elbow in his ribs - but he just smiles and straddles Mike with a purpose, looking him down with his kind yet intense signature gaze.

“Hi,” he whispers softly. “I love you.”

And somehow it feels so simple, so natural, that Mike just gulps down an embarrassingly high-pitched whimper and just lurches up, pressing a way-too-harsh kiss on smiling lips; it starts like this, messy presses of smiling lips and gentle laughs exhaled in one another’s space. But then Will stops smiling, and kisses him properly.

There’s no firework, but it doesn’t feel like home, either. It feels like desire, and novelty - it feels like something’s Mike always wanted but never thought he’d have and smells like paint and sugary tea and something like love. It tastes like that time they went for ice cream in the middle of the winter, like their fingers intertwined in the middle of a snowfall.

He whispers an I love you too against Will’s collarbone and swallows his answer with hungry lips and curious fingers.


End file.
